


Interlude II

by NyeLew



Series: Turretverse [10]
Category: Stargate - All Series, Stargate Atlantis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyeLew/pseuds/NyeLew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Satedan Runners acclimate to Atlantis after years on the run. A view of Atlantis from an outsider's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude II

**Sarana Lal**

On the first day after the Extraction Sarana had spoken with Gonos Ralor briefly before he had been wheeled away to the Expedition medical wing with Botor. It had been interesting to speak Satedan again with one who understood her words as she said them, and not as Ancestral technology rendered them. She had sought out Ronon Dex, whose wounds had not been major and who had spent only two days under medical observation, but he had proven difficult to find.

It didn’t help that Sarana hadn’t yet memorised the twists and turns of the corridors, and still remained unclear on which of the small chambers scattered about the city were storage spaces and which were teleportation devices.

Major John had assured her Dex was safe and at the very least not completely closed off from other people (they had taken to running together on the catwalks above some of the city’s main compartments), which Sarana supposed was helpful for his own healing.

But she was mostly alone because of that, and it left her with some problems. She spoke with the Expedition mind-healers regularly, and would have requested permission to do so even if it hadn’t been mandated by the Expedition doctors.

She had been given a set of rooms for her own personal use – Teyla Emmagan had said even Elizabeth’s rooms were smaller – but Sarana didn’t spend much time inside them. After her life as a Runner, her rooms felt cramped and small. Alien, even, although that wasn’t an unfair term anyway, given her location.

She had taken to roaming the hallways and public spaces of Atlantis at odd hours of the day and night, because despite the fact that she no longer had an embedded tracker and the Wraith Hive had been shattered Sarana still couldn’t manage to sleep in chunks longer than an hour.

Ingrained habits were the hardest to break, and her inability to sleep properly had been a constant presence throughout her time as a Runner. The doctor had offered her Earth based sleeping medicine but the thought of sleeping for an uninterrupted stretch scared her more than her erratic hours bothered her.

She spent her time regarding the Ancestral machines and rattling around its ancient streets and plazas, taking in the elegant spires and polished metalwork that comprised the city-ship. A city larger than any on Sateda, and the entirety contained within a single discrete unit. She had viewed art and sculptures whose context had been forever lost to time and war.

At times she met with the Earthers who knew so much about Ancestral history and culture, and who attempted to explain their artefacts and puzzle at the context of their cultural remains. Most were eager enough to discuss their work, but all of them were busy and pressed for time; Sarana, too, kept to a fluctuating schedule of sleep and insomnia, and so rarely saw the same people twice.

So that was how, on the fourth day, Sarana found Teyla Emmagan sat in the commissary alone in the middle of the night. Tentatively, Sarana sat down at her table clutching a mug of an Earth tea.

“I’m not bothering you?” she asked after a few moments.

“No, please sit,” said Teyla. “How are you adjusting to life on Atlantis?”

“I’m still making the adjustment,” Sarana admitted. “My hours are still strange, and I am not yet authorised to undertake any work or training.”

“It is difficult at first,” said Teyla. “It will become easier. Have you thought of watching the Machine science lessons with some of the adults? It might help you to familiarise yourself with Earth science.”

“Someone said those lessons were happening somewhere,” said Sarana, “but I couldn’t remember where, and sometimes I’m asleep when they’re happening… It’s bad enough staying in one place for so long; something just feels _wrong_ about it, you know?”

Perhaps Sarana was oversharing. She couldn’t remember what regular social conventions were on Sateda, let alone Athos. At least with the Earthers she didn’t have to worry about breaking cultural norms or taboos – McKay had told her the Expedition came with so many different and clashing Earth cultures that its members were contractually obligated to be tolerant of such things. She had learned, later, that on Earth there were many hundreds of religions and cultures and languages. Then the population of Earth had left her stood gaping at the computer terminal when she had mentally compared it with Satedan census records and her best estimates of other planets. She would have to visit somewhere in the range of three hundred planets in order to capture an equivalent population number to the Earth country of the United States of America, and many more again to see a population equivalent to that of China.

Earth possessed a population equivalent to that of several hundred _Djereen (_ which the Earthers called Pegasus) planets. The productivity of hundreds of thousands of minds in close contact, left alone to flourish and grow and prosper. Trade networks the likes of which Sateda had never known, for all that she had traded across twelve planets. Languages and cultures, great works of literature and music…

Ah, she had missed something Teyla had said.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again? I was… thinking,” she said.

“It is no bother,” said Teyla. “It will get better with time. Adjustment to new surroundings, especially such a radical change, is never easy.” She paused. “I wouldn’t ordinarily suggest this, but I think you benefit from Rodney’s … approach. Dr McKay keeps odd hours also; our team is not on the active mission roster at present, and he spends much of his time in his lab. I think he would relish the opportunity to test your potential, and you would enjoy it also.”

“I think I will try that,” she said. It was better than nothing, after all.

She talked with Teyla for some time (she didn’t quite know how long) until the other woman retired to her quarters. Sarana roamed the halls until she reached a picturesque balcony and stared out at the ocean.

*

On the seventh day Sarana found herself outside of Rodney McKay’s lab at some unsocial hour of the night, and he was inside. She hadn’t intended to visit him yet, but she had found her way to his space anyway, and so she took it as a sign. She entered the lab and greeted the man awkwardly.

“Hello? Dr McKay? I saw that you were awake and I… I was interested in your work.”

That was true enough. The people of Earth had moved centuries beyond Sateda in many aspects, but crucially in those relating to her own field. They had learned from more advanced societies, and she would learn from them. Nobody had quite said it, but Sarana had the impression that Rodney McKay was a standout scientist even among the many thousands back on Earth. He led the Expedition’s science contingent, which represented the bulk of the Earth population, and appeared to be responsible for many of the city’s critical systems.

“I’m looking at the Wraith Dart power source,” said McKay after a long wait. “Or maybe I should say I’m looking _for_ the Wraith Dart power source.”

“It’s a Wraith,” said Sarana. “It doesn’t have a power source; it feeds.”

Surely he knew this? Wraith ships were living members of the Hive, each and every one, although only Hive ships would possess a Mind.

“That… makes a lot of sense,” he said. “Come in and take a look.”

He gestured to the floor in front of his desk where the wreckage of a Wraith Dart had been arranged carefully. The hull had started the early stages of decay, although looked mostly intact (allowing for the damage, of course, Sarana thought absently).

“I don’t know the feeding mechanism,” said Sarana. “It was all we could do to figure out that the ships were Wraith, not Wraith tech. They don’t have a brain, and they’re modified with computers and other equipment… but they’re alive. Something in the Hive nourishes them.”

McKay frowned.

“That means we won’t find anything interesting without capturing a Hive,” he complained. “If the power generation is done centrally by the Hive ship – which would need to be fed too, but on what? – then nothing smaller than a cruiser would have an independent power plant.”

“Yes, I believe that is correct.”

“How do you know?”

Sarana thought about his words before responding. His tone didn’t imply disbelief, merely curiosity.

“During the Wraith War I was part of a group responsible for the study of Wraith technology. We captured many Darts. Our military was able to extract other information from Wraith scientists we captured.”

“Is that how you made your gun?”

“I suppose,” she said. “In any case, you won’t find tips on power generation from the Wraith. Their whole culture is parasitic. It’s literally programmed into them biologically. They feed. Their technology feeds.” It felt good not to have to police her words. When speaking with less advanced cultures the Ring would attempt to translate, but advanced concepts often translated poorly – ‘genetics’ would be understood as ‘holy spirit energy’ – but the Earth humans rarely met a concept they hadn’t encountered once before on Earth. It was comforting, in a way.

“Their energy weapons are interesting,” said McKay, “but I think the Goa’uld stuff is stronger. Also a parasitic lifeform,” he said, “but literally: they’re these creepy wormy fishy deals that live in people’s heads. Both of them use stuff based on Ancient principles, but I think the Goa’uld are better at it than they are.”

“Maybe,” said Sarana cautiously. “But I think… I don’t understand the principles behind the Goa’uld weapons, but I think the discrepancy in power is due to how the Wraith generate the beam. It is biological in nature and consequently less powerful than an artificially generated pure weaponised beam, but it is astonishingly energy efficient.”

Sarana couldn’t remember the efficiency quotient but it had been shocking to hear. The vast majority of the energy dedicated to the Hive ship went to keeping the Hive and its subsidiary shipwraith alive.

“Ugh, they artificially selected for these traits, didn’t they?” said McKay, frowning. “Wraith Hive breeding programmes… It makes sense, of course. Why not take advantage of evolution when designing your living city ships? Engineer the basic system and select for improvements…”

“Wraith technological development is an interesting process,” she said. She didn’t know that was how it worked, but the pieces all fit together. Wraith bred ships like humans bred dogs. Evolutionary processes would kick in and improve upon the initial designs when guided by the Wraith scientists. It took a lot of the innovation and creativity out of the process, but Sarana hadn’t thought the Wraith to exemplify either thing to begin with.

“I’ve just thought up about a hundred questions on Wraith culture I’m not qualified to answer,” said McKay. “I’ll bug one of the anthropologists about it, I guess.”

“Are you not in charge of the anthropologists?” asked Sarana. Maybe she had overstepped again. Was that sort of suggestion appropriate? She couldn’t say. Half the time she was torn between saying anything at all and saying everything that came into her mind through fear of never being able to say something to anyone again. She didn’t want to offend, in case she became unwelcome, but she also didn’t want to shrink into the background and be forgotten.

“I am! I’ll give them a project and make it sound official. I guess I could make it official official, too. It’s useful stuff… Could you talk to them? When they’ve got the project on-going, I mean.” He paused. “Unless you’re not… We’re not supposed to impose anything---I mean, if you wanted to. I’m not very good at…” he said, and waved his hands around awkwardly.

“Do you want to know how to adapt the principles of low-level Wraith power generation to work with basic electronics?” she said, changing the subject. That was precisely what she had done in the early stages of designing her solar powered gun, and it was the only part of the process she was willing to impart.

She wasn’t cleared to work, but she didn’t think this counted.

As it turned out, McKay did want to know how to do that, and so Sarana spent several more hours in his company talking him through it and watching as he created a simulation of its principles on his laptop for her to play with.

She returned to her rooms as the new day dawned, and when she awoke later, realised she had slept four whole hours.

*

On the eighth day Sarana saw Ronon Dex, who didn’t stop to speak with her, but seemed a lot less wild than he had done previously. She supposed she did, too. It was odd how quickly one became less wild after a hot bath and nutritious food. It was still superficial, of course – Sarana knew extremely well that she would be damaged, psychologically, for a long time.

She had internalised that already. She understood it. Accepted it. To not accept it would be the end of her because it was the reality, so instead of wallowing, she visited Dr McKay in his lab again. The irritable man never seemed to leave it, although she _had_ visited once to find the lab empty.

On the eighth day Sarana operated on something approaching a normal schedule, and Dr McKay had been in his lab. She had entered it to find him fiddling with a small machine at one of his benches, and when she entered, he addressed her immediately.

“Great! I was hoping you’d come by today. I have something I want to show you.” He gestured to the device on his bench. “This is a Mark II.5 Naquadah Generator. This is one of the ways we generate power.”

“It is very small,” said Sarana eventually, looking down at the device. “How much power does it generate?”

“Enough to power a small city,” said McKay. “Uh, a city of about 250,000, I guess, which is a big city in some places.”

“That is very impressive,” she said after a few moments. The Satedan coal plants had seemed power enough, but they had been massive and required input of an equally massive amount of raw materials. “How much fuel does it require?”

“Not a whole lot,” said McKay, “but considering the availability of naquadah, it’s an expensive ‘not a whole lot’.”

“Mm, I know of the material. It was not abundant on Sateda.”

“The Wraith probably directly control naquadah sources in this galaxy,” said McKay. “It’d make sense. Ancient tech is full of the stuff – literally, the city is built out of it. And some other stuff. We’ve brought some with us, obviously.”

So Sarana spent the rest of the eighth day learning about naquadah generators, and whenever McKay used a term she didn’t understand he would explain the concept and they would proceed quickly. Eventually, he had her dismantle the example on his bench (assuring her it couldn’t explode and destroy half the city), and when she was done, had her reassemble it.

When she was done, he clapped his hands together.

“Excellent!” he said. “You’re now certified to fix and maintain naquadah generators. I’ll just update the system…” he said, and did something with his computer.

Sarana merely sat there, somewhat shocked.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. Last time, when I showed you how to hack the Ancient database? That was you getting certified to work with Ancient computers.”

**Gonos Ralor**

Gonos hadn’t even registered the sublime majesty of the Ancestral City when he had arrived, since Botor had been whisked to the medical facility and he had followed anxiously. The doctors had attempted to separate them, which hadn’t gone well – Gonos had been prepared to accept the (brief, it had been promised firmly) separation, but Botor had refused. The removal of their trackers had gone quickly, at least for Gonos, who had accepted the anaesthetic gracefully. Botor had refused (and Gonos had been fully prepared to chastise him for it later, but Ronon Dex had also refused anaesthetic and so he felt it was perhaps A Military Thing) and so it had taken the doctor much longer to remove the Wraith device.

Botor had been confined to his bed due to his injuries, and although Gonos had been given quarters and leave to roam already, he hadn’t left the medical bay. He had spoken with Sarana Lal, who remained every bit as sharp as he remembered if a little more haunted (which he supposed echoed her own reaction to him), and with the nurses and doctors, but with no one else with the exception of Botor.

Dex had left the infirmary soon after being admitted, having acquired no major injuries and requiring no medical treatment. He hadn’t been receptive to conversation regardless, and Gonos had been prepared to accept that as a personal slight until he realised Dex had been uncommunicative and withdrawn towards everyone except the Expedition’s commander.

On their first day, both he and Botor had slept.

On the second day Gonos began to wonder and question, and analyse their situation. The Ancestral City was a thing to behold even if he had seen only the barest pieces of it. The Earth Expedition’s control over the city’s systems spoke volumes, and the presence of the Athosians suggested they were willing to work with native _Djereen_ cultures.

On the third day the chief doctor, Beckett, came to discuss treatment options for Botor’s leg, which had broken awkwardly, not that Gonos was at all surprised. When Botor did things he did them unusually, and usually spectacularly.

“Gonos,” said Botor, tugging on Gonos’s sleeve. “Gonos, he wants to put tiny machines in my blood to fix the bones in my leg.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He turned towards Beckett.

“It’s, ah, well… You see, we have these wee little machines, we call them nanites, and we wouldn’t usually… it’s just that, the break is particularly severe and it will heal without the nanites but you will lose a significant amount of mobility. And the older injuries can be—ameliorated.”

“What do you think, Gonos?”

“Is it safe?”

“Quite safe,” said Beckett. “I’ve had a course of nanite treatment myself. They’ll stay in you forever, but they’ll monitor your health and augment your body’s natural healing processes. They might get used up, or broken, but we can give you another dose when that happens. They’ll fix your leg right up.” He paused, then frowned. “In a few weeks, of course. But it will heal just as strong as before.”

Neither he nor Botor answered, so Beckett continued.

“Most of our military officers have nanites, and the command staff, and we’re going to roll them out properly eventually… you could both receive the treatment,” he suggested.

“Can we see them?” Gonos asked, unsure whether he had asked a useful question or not.

“Yes, actually,” said Beckett. “It gives me an excuse to use the Ancient scanner thingy. Botor will have to stay here, though. I can send a picture to my tablet I think,” he said, and so Gonos was taken to another room in which a series of small machines were sat upon pedestals.

“This isn’t human blood,” warned Beckett, “so don’t be too alarmed when you see it.” He tapped at the screen near the device and it switched to show a live image of the blood sample. Little machines, smaller than the cells, moved about the blood and, in some cases, sent miniscule probes into the cell.

“This is a Wraith blood sample,” explained Beckett. “I loaded some special nanites into it so they can report back all sorts of useful things. But it works in exactly the same way. I have lots of the wee buggers in me too, and I’m just fine.”

“It is strange to see,” said Gonos. On Sateda the concept was not unknown, although it had been considered fanciful given their level of advancement. They had discovered cells by the time of the Wraith War, at the very least, and the concept of machinery smaller even than those had been a difficult theoretical question.

“Oh, aye. I didn’t think we were here until I joined the Stargate Program,” said Beckett. “We knew it was possible and we had some theoretical designs, but… well, we managed it.”

Gonos almost wished he were a life scientist just so he could fully appreciate the advancement, but he knew his limitations and he felt suitably impressed regardless.

Beckett fiddled with the machine again and then with his small rectangular device (a tablet, Gonos thought it was called).

“Just sending myself a video file,” he said. “Nifty things, tablets.”

“They’re new, then?”

“Oh, aye. Well, we’ve had similar things before, but nothing like these.” He shrugged. “Before the Goa’uld attacked we were having a little bit of a technological renaissance. I’m sure if you asked Rodney he’d be able to tell you every piece of prototype or ‘still theoretical’ technology we’ve brought with us.”

The Earthers were interesting. Privileged, he thought, but then they also faced an existential alien threat to their society, so perhaps their luck had been spent. It wasn’t just the technology which surprised him – after all, there were several advanced societies in _Djereen_ – but the things they took for granted. That there would be food and shelter, and sufficient medicine; that they would not face war unless they voluntarily decided to fight in a national army, and that they would likely die of old age, or age related disease.

Beckett guided him back to Botor, and showed him the image.

“You can build machines this small?” he said in wonder. “Gonos, we picked the right people to rescue us.”

“Is that a yes to the treatment?” asked Beckett.

“I’m not sure,” said Botor. “I think so.”

“Maybe this will help,” suggested Beckett, and then left the bedside. He returned a few minutes later with a soldier, who pulled up his trouser leg to show … an unblemished leg.

“It ain’t much of anything,” he said, “but that’s the point, see? Thought I was going to lose the whole thing below the knee. Doc’s nanites fixed it right up, good as new. Get them done. Best decision any soldier ever made.”

That sorted it out, and Botor had been thoroughly converted. He wanted nanite treatment there and then, and he received it.

Then Botor slept, and Gonos sat in quiet thought.

*

On the fifth day Gonos met with Dr Elizabeth Weir, the woman in charge of the Expedition. The city’s governor, if he were to attempt to analogise her role to an equivalent Satedan position. He found her office promising, as upon entering he noticed that she kept many different cultural items scattered around the room, and some he recognised from cultured he had visited. She respected the people of this galaxy and their customs.

He could work with that. He had been worrying over how to broach the nature of his and Botor’s relationship, as such a thing was always difficult. Many cultures had prohibitions on such relationships, and sometimes this had hurt them when a village had been willing to feed a Runner but not a pair of men in love (although he knew there were many other cultures where such relationships were perfectly acceptable). He knew that Earth, with its myriad cultures and peoples, would have many different views on the matter.

The problem was that one view would likely prevail on Atlantis, as he had estimated most of the Expedition had come from a fairly narrow set of Earth cultures. Beckett came from a place called Scotland, and the other commanding officers came from a place called America. He had questioned him on why they all spoke the same language, but some of the other members of the Expedition spoke another (the Ring translation system translated different languages slightly differently, and he had learnt that in a spirited conversation with a woman he’d learned thought he could speak something called Chinese and was unaware of the Ring translation)..

He had been told that they were all the same country once, and Gonos had looked at a map and seen the vast swathes of land covered by that cultural group, and the population range it spanned, and knew that it would be the dominant cultural grouping in the Expedition.

He felt rusty at this kind of analysis, since there hadn’t been much cause for such a deep analysis as a Runner, but he felt that his conclusions were solid.

“I noticed you hadn’t slept in your quarters yet,” said Elizabeth Weir without any preamble. They had already met, so he didn’t require an introduction at the very least.

“No,” he agreed placidly. They had given him and Botor separate quarters, which had worried him somewhat.

“I had hoped to ease into this,” said Elizabeth, “but it’ll be a HR nightmare and I’m sure something huge is going to happen _tomorrow_ if I don’t just get this stuff sorted.”

“I see.”

“Basically, because of how this whole Expedition works, I’m going to have to hire you as a civilian contractor. If you want to contribute to the Expedition side of things, anyway.”

Gonos had expressed a desire to help, or rather to learn.

“When we make contact with Earth you’ll start to be paid Earth money,” she continued, “but for now you’ll be paid according to the currency system we have on Atlantis. We’re trying to keep people used to functioning economies, even if ours is a bit small scale and basically nonsense anyway. So: how are you finding life on Atlantis? Sorry to change tack, but I wanted to get that over and done with so I could spend more time talking with you about the adjustment. Kate tells me you are ready to start taking catch up classes, if you like.”

“I would like to learn some new languages,” he admitted. “And perhaps a basic primer in Earth history, and anything else…” Everything else, he should have said. After so long exercising mostly his body, he ached for an intellectual pursuit.

“That’s good to hear. What was it you did on Sateda, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was a member of the High Command. Politics, sort of. It was more a diplomatic appointment.”

“Then we have a lot in common, I think,” said Elizabeth. “Before this, I was a diplomat for the UN. That’s, uh, it’s—well it’s got complicated recently,” she said. “It was a non-governmental vehicle for world governments to come together and discuss problems.”

Gonos gathered it had grown into something else after their planet was attacked. Perhaps something more similar to the Satedan High Command, even.

“You are a student of language and politics?”

“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth warmly. “I _taught_ politics.”

“That is wonderful to hear.”

“Is there a problem with your quarters? Is it just that you wish to remain close with Mr Dashku while he recovers?”

“Ah, I do not mean to be ungrateful,” he said, “but the quarters are unsuitable. When Botor has recovered we shall be living together. We are married.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem!” said Elizabeth. “I’m sorry if you felt offended by the room designations – we just gave each of you your own set of rooms. We can rectify the problem any time now you’ve mentioned it.”

“That is good to hear. I was worried our relationship would not be recognised.”

Elizabeth frowned.

“Back on Earth it’s still difficult,” she said, “but we’re getting better. The US military actually doesn’t allow people like you to serve, but because of the international nature of the Expedition there are five or six different military codes in use at all times. And you’ll be a civilian consultant anyway, so it’s not like it will matter in the end. If anyone gives you any trouble, though, please do not hesitate to come and speak with me.”

Gonos wasn’t too pleased with the idea that there may in fact be trouble, but at least the Expedition head seemed concerned with it and prepared to deal with any problems that arose.

“It must be difficult to co-ordinate so many different peoples to live under the same rules,” he said. “You mentioned there are several military codes in use – why is it? Why not devise one based on the best principles of all the militaries present?”

Elizabeth laughed at this.

“I _tried_!” she said. “I submitted a document before we left with a revised military code that would cover every officer in the Expedition but it was rejected by Russia, China and the United States because it was too ‘radical’.” So, we have to deal with a bunch of different codes for different officers and we have to like it. At least until I’ve compiled enough evidence as to why it isn’t working this way and can just change it unilaterally. One of the benefits of being unable to contact Earth, I suppose.”

“Things like this change slowly,” Gonos said. “It is the way of things. On Sateda, we had an aphorism – ‘When a society changes it either happens all at once or so slowly nobody notices it until it’s happened.’ I think perhaps some of it will be lost in translation, but it is fitting here.”

“Mm, it is, isn’t it?” said Elizabeth. “Okay, so you’re good to go. I can send someone to the infirmary to show you to your new quarters, if you like, and someone will definitely be around to administer an aptitude test so we can see what sort of skills you already have and which you might be good at learning. It’s not a test in the sense that you can get things wrong, so don’t worry about that. It’ll just allow us to find the best place for you to work here, if that is what you wanted to do.”

“I don’t read your language,” he said, suddenly alarmed. Taking a test in a language one understood (artificially) but could not read was never a good idea.

“That doesn’t matter. We’ve designed as culture-neutral a test as is humanly possible, and then turned it over to our Machines to make it better. Someone will be there helping you.”

“I appreciate everything you and your people have done for us,” said Gonos, and although he was ‘being a politician’ he really and truly did mean it. The people from Earth were interesting, and kind, and generous. He didn’t think he could repay them if he lived another hundred years and worked for them the entire time – they had given him freedom, and a life. How did one repay that?

Gonos returned to the infirmary a much happier man than he had left it, secure in the knowledge that he and Botor had found, at least for the short-term, a new home.

**Botor Dashku**

Botor had been worried – and he thought it perfectly fair – that he’d never be able to walk properly again. The damage had been worse than he’d thought, and had they not been rescued he would have spent the rest of his (short) life as a cripple.

He would have died, and Gonos wouldn’t have been far behind him.

The Atlantis Expedition had literally saved his life, and then saved it in other ways that they probably didn’t understand yet. He was beginning to see that maybe he could have a life again, instead of merely surviving until the next day.

That he wasn’t going to lose his foot had been good news enough. That the people from Earth had medicine which could restore him to good health had been a bonus. He didn’t dare to dream that they had treatments available which would _improve_ his physical condition, but then they had offered them, and he had accepted.

Machines in the blood sounded like something fantastical, and at one time he would have refused them on the principle that he didn’t want machines in his body, thank you very much. But he had become a much more pragmatic man in his time as a runner, and the evidence of the machines’ efficacy was all around him in the people of Atlantis.

He would have to adapt to his new surroundings. He could reasonably leave Atlantis and live a quiet life somewhere – as a farmer, maybe – but he didn’t think he wanted to. The Expedition fought Wraith. He’d had many conversations which had told him that, and he’d seen the consequences in the infirmary during his stay.

Not only did they fight Wraith, they fought an enemy back on their homeworld. The people of Earth were warriors. That wasn’t all they were, of course – he understood that they were traders, scientists, and explorers too. But they were unafraid of war. They had developed weapons which could combat the Wraith. They understood technology and how it could be used for productive purposes, but also how it could be used for war.

He’d requested reading materials, because even though he wasn’t a big fan of literature, he _needed_ to know more about Earth and its people. He read mission reports, essays on historical events, and read about the history of Earth warfare.

It had been an interesting read. Humans warring against humans over nothing more than land or money. Genocides. Wide-scale oppression. Generation after generation lost to the pursuit of war, and the development of new ways to wage that war. Botor couldn’t say he didn’t understand that, since that had been the prevailing goal of Sateda through the centuries, but the Satedans had been fighting Wraith.

The Earthers had been fighting Earthers. Despite this, they had reached a point where they were developing automated weapons. Aircraft without pilots. Machines without operators. And then they turned outwards, uniting quickly in the face of a common enemy, to turn this skills at warfare against a much more powerful opponent.

That Earth still stood said much, but that the Expedition had been sent said more. It was unclear whether Earth would _remain_ standing. That the Expedition members knew that and _still_ fought against the Wraith spoke to Botor on a visceral level.

He could understand that better than anything, because it was what he intended to do. His leg would take some time to heal, even with the nanite treatment, but that was true of everything: _life_ was merely time, and how you ended up filling it. He would heal and then he would fight.

The Earth mind-healers had called him ‘remarkable resilient’ and ‘emotionally stable’. That hadn’t surprised him. If anyone had asked him, and nobody had because he doubted anyone thought he would even have such a thought, he would have told them _of course_ he was resilient and emotionally stable.

Unlike Dex or Lal, Botor and Gonos had had each other. They hadn’t been alone. They hadn’t forgotten how to communicate, or compromise, or how to interact with other people. They were a bit off, sure, but who wasn’t?

Although, if anyone _did_ ask his thoughts on the matter he might have to just respond with ‘it’s probably the morphine’, because it was probably the morphine.

**Ronon Dex**

Ronon appreciated the strict military order present on Atlantis, at least in relation to the actual military contingent, because it represented something that had been familiar once and he could slip back into it easy. It meant he didn’t have to think too much about anything other than what he was doing at that time, and he had a purpose, a role to fill.

He hadn’t been cleared for any actual work (the head doctors thought he had war trauma) but he could train, and so that is what he’d done.

He’d avoided speaking with the other Satedans, instead spending his free time running, sparring, and learning how to use Earth weapons. That hadn’t been difficult. Guns were guns, and once you got around how to assemble and disassemble them, and what kind of ammunition they used, you pointed and shot them and if you did it for long enough Wraith died.

The training calmed him. On his third day on Atlantis Ronon fought with some of the Marines hand-to-hand, and he won every time. Regimented training couldn’t ever hope to condition them in the same way that Running had conditioned him, although he would never recommend that as an exercise regime. His reaction times were near-perfect, and he was alert to even the most quiet of sounds.

It made him an effective warrior, a talented killer, but little else. He couldn’t sleep at night because of the sounds. He didn’t cope well with non-violent touching. He barely slept, and when he did, it was never for very long. He spent more time running on Atlantis than he had ever done as a Runner because at least there, the running would invariably be accompanied by fighting or hunting.

On Atlantis, he ate meals at a regulated time. He trained within a designated period. He had access to firearms only within a certain stretch of the day. He didn’t really mind, because routine was useful, but it was strange.

He didn’t know if he could cope with it, really.

So he had taken to running around Atlantis at all hours of the day and night, and sometimes he would run with John Sheppard, the military commander of Atlantis. He hadn’t expected the older man to be able to keep up with him, but whenever Ronon pushed harder, Sheppard kept up with him.

On the sixth day Ronon stopped running and asked Sheppard a question, the first time he had initiated any kind of communication.

“Why aren’t you out of breath?” he demanded. He’d been pushing himself harder and harder each day, trying to reach a point where the older man would give in and slow down. He hadn’t. Ronon wanted to know why.

“Oh, you know – good nutrition and regular exercise,” the Major had said with a wink, and carried on running. Ronon had to work to catch up.

*

On the seventh day, Ronon sparred with Teyla Emmagan. He’d refused at first because he hadn’t wanted to fight a small woman. He knew women had value as warriors (he wasn’t some kind of patriarchal fundamentalist), but he didn’t see the value in training with a woman half his size and a third of his strength. He’d demolished the Earth Marines, after all, and there were no women in that contingent.

No, the role of women in combat was not against men such as Ronon, and so he had refused at first to fight her hand-to-hand. She had demurred, suggesting that perhaps she could use a traditional close-combat weapon of Athos (which he had dismissed as wooden sticks), so he had agreed. She might be fast and quick, but he doubted she could break free from his grasp once he had her.

He’d been wrong to dismiss Emmagan’s skill. Neither of them had yet managed to gain any kind of upper hand.

Ronon growled and caught one of her sticks with his left hand, before she whacked him in the side with the other and spun out of his grasp. He’d learnt enough to realise that holding back was no longer an option: Emmagan would trade his velvet punches for steel kicks, and he would be left bruised.

So he kicked her in the face, and for a moment thought he’d gone too far until she smiled and returned a devastating flurry of kicks and punches (with and without her sticks).

What Emmagan lacked in raw physical power was irrelevant, as her speed and skill with her chosen weapon were such that they eclipsed any physical discrepancies. Ronon wasn’t as fast or as agile, and that was hurting him.

By then, a crowd had gathered in the training room, although no one made any noise and nobody moved to stop the fight. Ronon even spotted Sheppard at the back of the room.

Emmagan wasted no time exploiting his moment of distraction. She rounded on him with constant attacks, and it was all he could do to raise his forearms and block each one. He’d be beaten raw by the end of the fight if he couldn’t get the sticks away from her.

He allowed her to land a blow across the side of his face, then returned it with a punch to her face which sent her flying across the training circle.

He moved quickly then, because she’d be up in a flash if he didn’t.

She was faster, though, and as Ronon defended against a swipe to the genitals, Emmagan drove a stick into his gut, and he crumpled on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

In a flash she’d stuck one stick across his throat and another nestled under his balls. Returning the favour, Ronon reached up and placed a thick hand against her throat.

If this had been real, either of them could be killed at this point. Emmagan would be using a more lethal weapon, and Ronon would need to break her neck to prevent her using it – assuming she wasn’t quicker than he was.

“All right, all right! You both made your point,” said Sheppard. “This session’s over.”

He’d got that right. Emmagan had made her point, and Ronon would be feeling it for days. It didn’t even hurt that he hadn’t won – he’d found a worthy opponent after all. Sheppard, for all that he could outrun Ronon, hadn’t lasted half as long as Emmagan had.

*

On the eighth day Ronon saw Sarana Lal, the scientist, whilst he ran. He didn’t stop to talk with her, although he knew the woman wanted to say something because, if he had anything to say, he would have wanted to speak with her also, and instead just ran past her. He smiled this time, though, and he felt like that was a start. He ran without Sheppard on the eighth day but didn’t use it as an excuse to not push himself. He ran, and he ran for longer than he usually did with Sheppard. Ronon was moving into peak physical condition, now that he had adequate nutrition and medical care, and he wouldn’t let an older man win this contest.

He couldn’t. It just wasn’t right.

On the ninth day Ronon hadn’t been running for ten minutes when Sheppard joined him above the main city street. They ran for another thirty minutes before either of them said anything, and that had been Sheppard making a remark about his sparring session with Emmagan. Ronon had spoken with her afterwards, something which had surprised him more than it had surprised her, and it had been the most words he’d said in literally years.

Running with Sheppard usually evened that out, since there wasn’t much he could really _say_ during a gruelling ninety-minute run. This time, at the end of the run, Sheppard didn’t immediately jog off towards his quarters to shower. He lingered, and instead said something Ronon hadn’t expected him to say.

“You know, you’re never going to make breathless,” he said easily, speaking without any shortness of breath.

“Why?” He must be cheating somehow. Cheating was the only way Ronon could think of that John Sheppard could be in better physical condition than he was, even allowing for nutritional differences and lack of proper sleep.

“I’ve got robots in my blood that feed oxygen directly to my muscles. I’m basically cheating.” He grinned, then took off at a sedate jog, leaving Ronon gaping at him as he went.

*

On the tenth day Ronon visited the infirmary outside of his scheduled appointments (the next one was in two days, and he didn’t want to wait that long). He found the lead doctor at once, Doctor Beckett, and demanded to know more about blood robots.

“Blood robots? Oh, yes… yes, we could get you some nanites,” said Beckett. “I was going to offer a course of treatment at your next check up anyway,” he said.

“Will they make me better at fighting and running, like with Sheppard?” he pushed.

“The Major’s are more experimental, but I think we can make more of the little buggers,” said Beckett after a few moments. “I’ll have to check with Elizabeth first,” he said, “so come back and see me for your next appointment and we’ll see what we can do. We might even have some in stock already.”

So that was how, on the twelfth day, Ronon received a course of nanite treatment.

On the sixteenth day, Ronon outpaced Sheppard, and ended the run without once feeling out of breath or tired.

“I want to join a team,” he said at the end. “I think I’m ready.”

“Psych does, too,” said Sheppard. “I’ll work something out.”

Ronon returned to his quarters feeling something close to happy.


End file.
